SPANISH RED LEGGED PARDRIDGE DOUBLE GUN JOURNAL REPORT

We were seven shooters, strung out at 50-yard intervals along the bottom of a deep arroyo. Steep, brushy hills shot up in front of and behind us---rocky, austere country that would support nothing but brush and partridges. While I waited for action I checked out my helpers. My secretario, or loader, was a short, rough-hewn, weather-beaten older fellow named Claudio, who appeared to be part and parcel of the landscape. My general assistant was a tall, thin, younger fellow named Sebastian, who would serve as birdspotter and picker-up. Both smoked, their cigarettes dangling carelessly from the corners of their mouths. They spoke not a word.

I was on the very end of the line, which is generally not a good position. As the end gun I was asked to fire two shots to signal the official start of the drive, meaning that shooters could fire at will from that moment on. I fired two shots straight up, and got ready for action.

Within a minute I was caught completely by surprise by a big flock of birds that came directly from behind. Before they could all get away, however, I punched down one. Then the action really heated up. Birds were bursting over the crest of the hill in front, which was so close that it left me little time to mount and swing and track the bird. Some birds were only 20 yards up, some 40, some 50, all of them wind-driven at speeds of 40-50 miles per hour, and not an easy one in the bunch. A few flew low straight across the face of the hill in front, going from left to right, then others flew in the opposite direction. I punched out a double, shoved the empty gun at the loader, who gave me a loaded gun in the same instant, which I immediately shouldered and swung on a high, swift bird. I raked feathers out of it and it tumbled in a long arc far behind, as the loader popped open the first gun and the ejectors snicked and threw the bright empties high into the morning sunshine and a little puff of blue smoke wafted down the breeze and filled the air with a pungent, acidic fragrance. Once again we exchanged guns, I took down a very high double straight overhead, and we exchanged guns again. There was a brief lull in the action, and I watched feathers from those two birds spin and drift and disperse idly along the breeze. Gunfire crackled and roared down the line and birds, life snatched suddenly from them, sagged and tumbled into the rocky Castilian hillsides. Then the crest of the hill in front just seemed to regurgitate birds. Taking a double just as the birds came over the crest, I exchanged guns, took down another double straight overhead, exchanged guns again, and took down a double going away behind!! I was shooting red hot! Spanish secretarios and assistants are a blasé bunch, having seen some of the best shooters in the world in action, and now---for the first time---they were starting to pay attention to my shooting, and to talk animatedly:
"!Que tiros mas lindos!"
"No! !Que tiros increibles!"
To prove that I was human I missed the next two birds, but ended the drive with a strong finish, putting down a right-to-left crosser than a left-to-right crosser just before a horn signaled to stop shooting.
The secretario broke open both guns, and the assistant, who had counted and marked down all the birds in his notebook, announced grandly that I had shot 35 birds. And to think that I was---supposedly-in one of the poorer positions in the line!
Then the assistant scrambled through the brush, searching for birds that he had carefully marked down on a graph.
While the secretarios and assistants searched for fallen birds, I conferred with my fellow guns and compared notes. Dial Dunkin, alias the Donut King, had shot 50 birds, which made him high gun for the drive, and there were several others who were close behind him. The morning was off to a great start.

On the next drive we simply did an about-face and shot the birds as they were being driven back in the very opposite direction. On this drive I was second from the end, which essentially put me out of the action. I shot just 15 birds, but every one was a quality bird. In fact, I did some of my best shooting of the day on that drive. One bird in particular I shall never forget. This bird flew straight down the line of shooters, four of whom fired at it twice without cutting a feather. By the time it flew over me it was at least 40 yards high, but I swung far, far ahead and put it down most impressively, drawing gasps of disbelief from secretario and assistant. I finished the drive with another, even more spectacular shot, and was quite content to go out on that note even though I had shot only 15 birds.

Bob Rod, a businessman from Houston, was high gun for that drive with a whopping 65 birds.

After the second drive we gathered for one of the unique pleasures of driven partridge shooting, namely, a miniature feast of bocadillos, or snacks. Outfitter Eduardo de Araoz and his crew had assembled a long table and chairs right out there in that rough, rocky countryside. They had loaded the table with slices of jamon iberico, or dried ham that has been fed only on acorns and other natural foods; dried loin of pork; tuna fish salad sandwiches; slices of manchego cheese, Rioja wine and ice-cold beer and Coke and coffee---a veritable cornucopia of goodies. We got our grubhooks to work while the birds were laid out in rows and sets. There were exactly four sets, with 100 birds to a set.

After the obligatory photos we moved on to the nearby hunters' pavilion for lunch, where the birds were once again displayed in arrow-straight rows. While we ate the secretarios and assistants and doghandlers found another 59 birds, which gave us a total of 459 for the two drives, out of an allotted bag of 500 for the day. As a gesture of good will Eduardo de Araoz marked us down for only 430 birds, which gave us an extra 29 birds to shoot on another day. By the time we finished lunch they were being loaded into a refrigerator truck, which would haul them to market in Madrid, where they would be served in upscale restaurants and households the next day.

Lunch at the hunters' pavilion was a very special affair. This structure, which belongs to the Duke of Fernan-Nunez, is used strictly to entertain hunters with meals and social get-togethers. In its elegant confines it has high white walls which are adorned with mounted trophies from around the world: ibex, wild boar, Cantabrian chamois, Pyrenean chamois, greater kudu, and scores of red stags. A bear rug covers one wall and a lion rug is draped across a large table. There are many large framed photos of hunting action---driven partridge shoots and monterias, or large-scale driven hunts for big game---some of them of long dead hunters from a long dead time, clear back to 1916-1920. The place is furnished with overstuffed chairs and sofas, and warmed by a huge, inviting fireplace. The atmosphere---or ambiente, as the Spanish call it---is very aristocratic and very exclusive. The place has a distinctive air of wealth and power. This pavilion has catered to some of the most prominent hunters in the world. Among them are Russian oligarchs and Greek shipping magnates and Swiss bankers, kings and senators and patriarchs. The King of Spain has hunted out of here frequently

Waiters in starched white waistcoats brought on a huge salad of asparagus, tomatoes, onions, black olives, and chunks of tuna drenched with extra virgin olive oil, then scrumptious potato and cheese croquettes, and finally the piece de resistance, namely, a fantastic pork loin with a sauce of oranges, carrots, onions, and raisins---all of which we gourmandized and washed down with a very nice Marques de Riscal Rioja 1997. We finished up with a delectable apple tart plus orange slices topped with chopped walnuts and meringue, and completed the feast with a café con leche. Afterwards we retired to fireside for chocolates and Montecristo cigars. Oh, the deliciously decadent lifestyle of birdshooters in Spain!

Since we had already shot 430 birds out of the daily allotment of 500, we voted unanimously not to shoot any more after lunch.

We then returned to our headquarters for the shoot, namely, the famous parador, or inn, in the village of Chinchon, just about an hour's drive south of Madrid. This parador was originally a monastery for the monks of Our Lady of Paradise, and dates from the 17th century. Later it became a monastery of the order of barefoot Augustinian monks. In the 18th and 19th century it was converted into a center of theological studies. In 1842 it became a court and a jail, and remained thus until it was destroyed by fire in 1929. It was abandoned for many years, until it was converted to its present form in the 1970's. It offers most of the amenities of a luxury hotel, while at the same time preserving its rich historical and intensely Catholic ambience. Many of the walls are painted with vast murals depicting scenes from the lives of the saints, and huge tapestries in the hallways and the dining areas depict more such scenes. All in all, a most pleasant and agreeable hostelry in which to spend several wonderful days.
The parador at Chinchon is famed for its distinctive cuisine, and gourmets regularly make pilgrimages here. Some of the items that its kitchen is famous for are garlic soup, cod soup, almond soup, and peppercorn chicken smothered in a sauce of chopped almonds, hard-boiled eggs, garlic, saffron, and several secret ingredients. During the hunting season rabbits, hares, and partridges are served up in inimitable fashion. The most famous game dish is certainly the delectable quail with lentils. The perfect way to finish any dinner at the parador is to have a glass of bright-yellow lemoncillo, a pungent lemon liqeur made right there in the village of Chinchon.

Chinchon is situated precisely in the geographic center of Spain. As such it has been at the center of Spanish history, going clear back to Roman times. Almost every invading army has trod upon its rocky earth. It has been conquered and reconquered countless times. It changed hands between Moors and Christians many times until it was definitively brought under Christian control by King Alfonso VI in the 11th century.

(Indeed, Spain is no country for Moslems. The Spaniards threw them out in 1492. Moreover, the Spaniards are great lovers of pork, and serve some form of it three meals a day. In Madrid there is a chain of restaurants called El Museo del Jamon(The Ham Museum) that serve nothing but pork products. Old Osama and company would feel distinctly uncomfortable there.)

That first evening we enjoyed a grand welcoming dinner in a special dining room called El Claustro de los Augustinos(The Cloister of the Augustines). By candlelight amid murals that depicted monastic life in the 17th and 18th century, we feasted on slices of manchego cheese, cups of beef bouillon, excellent prosciutto con melone, roast chicken with flakes of mild cheese and toasted garlic bread, hot garlic shrimp, and, to finish up, a walnut sponge pie with molasses. Then ensued cafecitos and lemoncillo and a smooth Lepanto brandy with more Montecristo cigars.

After dinner Eduardo de Araoz-president and owner of Cazatur, the company which organized the shoot-gave a thorough disquisition on Spanish partridge shooting for those of us who had never done it before. He emphasized two points: never shoot low birds and never shoot easy birds. (In retrospect, I found such precautions totally unnecessary---I didn't see a low bird or an easy bird in the whole three days shooting.) He made it very clear that he can control very precisely the number of birds that a group of shooters will kill on any given day. He can enable them to shoot 1000 on the first drive, or reduce the kill to just 300 for the whole day. Such a degree of control is absolutely essential because each group orders and pays for a precise number of birds to be killed each day. If they get fewer than that number they are not getting their money's worth-an unpardonable sin in this business. Conversely, if they shoot more birds than they paid for the shoot organizer and the landowner lose money. Thus, the totals are announced after each drive, with a running total for the day. When the group gets close to its daily allotment it can choose to quit or continue shooting, understanding full well that if its total for the whole 3-day shoot exceeds the number paid for each additional bird will cost a whopping $40! (Clearly this is not a sport for the welfare and food stamp crowd. A first-rate shoot, such as the one we enjoyed, will cost at least $2000 per day per shooter, and some shoots will cost over $4000 a day.) A modest shoot would be for 300 birds per day, an average shoot for 500 birds per day (that was the number our group had ordered), and a lavish shoot would be for 600 or more birds per day. That is for a group of 7-10 shooters, with eight being an average-size group. The standard shoot lasts three days Wounded and lost birds are not included in these totals.

Eduardo went on to point out that it is obviously not possible to shoot such large numbers of purely wild birds. Accordingly, large releases of birds are made during August and September. On the Casasola coto-or hunting preserve---where we shot the first day about 60,000 birds are released each year and about that same number are shot. Obviously this is a very costly venture; Eduardo thinks that without shooters and their money the red-legged partridge would be extinct in Spain today.
The released birds mingle with the wild birds and by the opening of shooting season in mid-October have fully reverted to a wild condition. Moreover, the more they are driven the wilder they become, and the higher and faster they fly. Eduardo estimated that in order to enable us to shoot 500 partridges per day the beaters would have to drive about 6000 birds over us. Such a large number must be presented because most birds will get away without being shot at. He went on to explain that partridges make a succession of three flights when they are flushed. The first flight is only about 200 yards long, the second is somewhat longer, and the third flight---when they fly over the shooters---can be up to two miles long. It is on this last flight that the birds really accumulate speed. If there is no wind they will reach a speed of 40 miles an hour, if there is a tailwind they might well exceed 50 miles an hour. A crosswind will make them perform all kinds of evasive maneuvers. Under such conditions---and those were the conditions we encountered every day---even expert shooters will require an average of at least three shells for each bird brought to bag. Less adept shooters might require five shells per bird.

The difficulty of the shooting is determined to a large extent by the lay of the land. The easiest shooting is on flat land. However, the real devotees of driven partridge shooting always prefer to shoot their birds on rough, uneven ground. That means shooting at birds driven off of high hills or cliffs over shooters stationed far below in deep draws or arroyos. Throw in a cold day---which stimulates the birds to fly faster---and a crosswind and you have supreme sport, the kind of sport that quickly separates the duds from the death-dealers, and that draws affluent shooters from the far ends of the earth.

The shooters that it drew in my group were Bill Sefton---The Hamburger King of Mitchigain, who owns 27 Wendy's franchises; Steve Parise, an executive with the Pepsi-Cola Company; Dial Dunkin, ex-banker, outfitter of superb duck and goose hunts in Mexico, and part-time poet, variously known as The Donut King and The Red-Neck Poet Laureate of the Rio Grande Valley; and Ben Stuart, Bob Rod, Glen Bozma, and Ronnie and Carol Boyd, all prominent business people from Houston, Texas.

In my several visits to Spain I have heard tales about legendary Spanish shooters who shot partridges virtually every day of the season, who went afield with three-four-five matched guns and their own personal loaders, and who averaged slightly more than one shotgun shell for each bird brought to bag. One of them supposedly racked up a total of over 100,000 partridges witnessed and documented. I have never seen any shooters like that during my visits to Spain, and quite frankly I am skeptical of such claims and tales.

One thing that I have seen among groups of shooters from the Latin countries---say, Spain, Italy, and France-is a fierce competitiveness. Each shooter wants to be "king of the hunt," or high gun for the day, and he will resort to almost any means to grab this honor. These include---among others---shooting birds that rightly belong to his neighbor guns, and paying his secretario and assistant a bonus for each bird shot by the neighbor guns which they are able to purloin and add to his bag. This means that at the completion of each drive they will make a mad dash to grab up fallen birds, and sometimes will even get in fist fights over a bird. I am happy to report that American shooters are much more casual and much less competitive.

Driven partridge shoots generally present excellent opportunities to see some really fine guns---Hollands and Purdeys and Lebeau-Courallys and Beretta SO-4's and Winchester 21 Grand Americans and so forth. The guns used by the group I shot with were somewhat more modest. Ronnie and Carol Boyd had pairs of Arrietas, Bill Sefton had a nice pair of medium-grade Parkers, and Steve Parise had a pair of standard-grade Model 21's with fabulous wood. Otherwise the guns were just standard shooting machines. Nobody complained about the shooting efficiency of these guns, because the group shot extremely well. They were probably as deadly a group of gunners as I have ever shot with.

I used two new guns, namely, the Winchester Supreme over-under and the Remington Model 300 Ideal over-under. The former gun had 28" barrels, the latter 30" barrels. I used improved cylinder and modified choke tubes in both guns. I really came to like both guns during the course of the shoot. They are not beautiful guns, but rather rugged, dependable, no-nonsense, modestly priced guns with very good handling qualities. They both have sufficient weight to keep the gun tracking clear through the completion of the swing. This ample weight makes these guns ideal for standing in one place and firing a lot of shots, as one does on any kind of driven shoot. I especially like the fact that the Remington 300 Ideal is available with 30" barrels, which is certainly my preferred barrel length, just as it was the preferred barrel length of Lord Ripon, who probably shot more birds than any man who ever lived and therefore knew a thing or two about shotguns. The 300 Ideal is essentially a descendant of Remington's line of long-discontinued over-unders, the Models 32 and 3200. It is definitely a big improvement on those earlier guns.

On the second day we shot near Aranjuez, site of the royal palace. This is an especially beautiful area. For many miles roads leading into the city are flanked by tall sycamore and cottonwood trees.

When we arrived in the shooting area we were enveloped by the mingling fragrances of wild rosemary, cedar, and lavender---a perfume even more intoxicating than that of gunsmoke. I was high all day.

We shot 529 birds that day, 29 over our allotment, but Eduardo de Araoz and the shoot manager, Eduardo Corsini, made us a present of those birds as a gesture of good will.

The next day was a sightseeing day. Eduardo de Araoz led us on a tour of Toledo, which was only an hour's drive away. This is the city that Miguel de Cervantes, creator of the great novel Don Quixote, called a "winsome outcrop, glory of Spain and light of its cities," without a visit to which no visit to Spain is complete. In one day we could not see all the attractions of Toledo, but we made a good effort. Under the expert tutelage of Eduardo de Araoz, we visited the crypt where the kings of Spain are buried, an ancient synagogue, and the El Greco Museum, where one of the greatest paintings of all---some critics call it the greatest-namely, The Burial of the Count of Orgaz, is on display. We had a thorough visit to the cathedral, the largest in the world and the most intensely Catholic spot in the most intensely catholic country in the world. We had lunch deep underground in a famous restaurant called Gambrinus, where we feasted on -what else?- jamon iberico, air-cured loin of pork, pate of game bird meat(pheasant and partridge), black sausage with onions and garlic, and the piece de resistance---roast partridges in sweet onion sauce. We finished up with a cranberry-anise liqeur and more Montecristo cigars.

For me the last day of shooting was the best day. I got 29 birds the first drive, 26 the second drive, 30 the third drive, and 19 the fourth drive for a total of 104, which probably made me high gun for the day-and there wasn't an easy bird in the bunch. The day was sunny, chilly, and very windy-extremely difficult shooting conditions. The birds on the first drive were perhaps the most difficult I ever shot, driven along at 40-55 mph on a tailwind 30-40 yards high or crossing the slope in front from left to right. I did my best shooting on the second drive. Roque Armada Diaz, Eduardo de Araoz's right hand man, served as a kind of cheerleader. Every time I made a spectacular shot he would exclaim loudly: WOW! With such an audience I made two doubles on very high birds, and many singles on similarly high birds. I swatted some swift left-to-right crosssers and several birds high and behind. Roque inspired me to levels of performance that I would certainly not have achieved otherwise. It was over all too soon.
Even though the shooting was over, the pleasures of the trip were far from over. Dial Dunkin and his wife and sister and I went back to Madrid, where we enjoyed three glorious days. We filled these days with visits to the Prado Art Museum, perhaps the greatest in the world, and to Diana, a wonderful gun and hunting equipment store.
We spent a day at the Rastro, a gigantic flea market. Here we found a great variety of beautifully crafted leather items of special interest to hunters and shooters---gun cases, cartridge belts, shooting vests, bird straps, boots---at irresistible prices. Every evening we sampled the fare at a half-dozen tapas (snack) bars. The culmination of our stay in Madrid was certainly an evening at a famous flamenco nightclub, El Corral de la Pacheca. For two hours we were mesmerized by the sharp click of castanets and hand-clapping like pistol shots and hard heels jack-hammering the floor, whirling bodies and flaring skirts and flashing eyes, in the wild but controlled abandon of fandangos and sevillanas, alegrias and bulerias. As the great poet W.B. Yeats wrote: "Oh body swayed to music, oh brightening glance,/ How can we tell the dancer from the dance?"

The week-long whirlwind of shooting and shopping, of eating and drinking and dancing and music, was over all too soon. Out of more than 200 international hunting and shooting excursions, it had been one of my best. On departing Spain I vowed-just as General Douglas MacArthur had done when he departed Manila---"I shall return!"

- Stuart Williams